


Of Honey and Cherry Blossom

by Thelema_Rhoias



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Also soft Bill, Billford - Freeform, Fluff, I mean very very VERY, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sorry Not Sorry, also, angsty fluff, angsty sex, bill is yearning for sensations, bottom bill, i am still not good it is my first work, kind of, not for too long tough, rather aggressive make out, rather rough sex, stanford tries to repress his desire, this is my first ever publication, this is very self indulgent, yearning for feeling someting anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 10:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thelema_Rhoias/pseuds/Thelema_Rhoias
Summary: After thirty years of meeting each other 'only' in dreams, Stanford and Bill meet again in the physical world.This episode supposedly happens after Ford's travels though the portal - as a landmark in canon - and before Bill would start the equivalent of Weirdmageddon in this AU.As for here, there is no plot, and this is just an excuse to work on sexual and sensual content.





	Of Honey and Cherry Blossom

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely my first publication, and my first publication of the PWP style, please excuse the clumsiness, I really never published anything before. 
> 
> All remarks, comments, critiques are welcome ^^
> 
> This work is part of my AU, The Second Scene. Mentions of 'the Door' and the 'Flowers' or 'Poppies' are part of this AU, in which Bill is connected to Poppies - them being a flower connected to dreams and, to a lesser extent, the underworld in Ancient Greek Mythology. Bill is also a fallen God of dreams in this Au. Perhaps the last God, this is still to be determined. I might post more about this AU, still oneshots and stuff, along this year. Not a complete fic alrealdy, though. This will come later, as I have more projects in the fandom before :)
> 
> I really hope you will appreciate it, if not, I would understand as this may be very clumsy. Please comment, critic, so I know what I have to correct for the next works. ^^ Thank you for reading ♪▲
> 
> I have not been beta-read either, however, I might correct if i or anyone else, noticed mistakes and misspellings. Thank you ^^

 

Earth, XXIst century.  


 

The researcher had woke up in cold sweat this early morning. Not that he was not used to the God's visits, almost every week, since they parted in the late 70s. That did not frighten him, since they met in dreams only. If he woke up panicked, it was because of the _perfume_ that had invaded the room. The same fragrance that had invaded the room and his whole life back in the day. It was almost dawn, and he stood up in his boxers, covering his shoulders with a blanket while grabbing his glasses to wear them. Then, he looked at the window: there were poppies everywhere. Golden and purple poppies, glowing in the early morning light.  
There was no time to lose. He _had_ to check his recordings, he had to _know_. Had _he_ come back in physical form? How was that possible, when he had done all he could to ensure that the door between the physical and unphysical worlds was sealed? When he had spent years working on convincing himself that the God's intentions were bad for this world – and, from a human point of view, they were.  
He had tried for the same thirty years not to _want_ Bill. He managed, most of the time, to see him only as a threat to this physical world, to see him as the Jester who plagued his dreams, playing nice, sometimes, as if the blond fallen God only wanted company. He managed, most of the time, which was easy, because he only met him in his dreamscape, or in the Second Scene – Bill's own fantasy world. His _dreamality._

  
Stanford hurried downstairs, after having hastily put on a turtleneck and a pair of pyjamas trousers. He was heading towards the kitchen for a coffee when he saw _him_ , half lying languidly on the sofa, wearing the exact same clothes he wore when they first met, thirty years ago: a tunic that let his thin and slightly muscular arms, as well as one of his frail shoulders visible. He also wore the same pair of harem pants, his small and delicate little caramel feet, bare.

He had not changed. His silhouette was still the small, skinny frame it had been back then, his hair, a total mess of golden locks. There was something uncanny in meeting your ex lover decades later, seeing they had not changed at all. But again, Ford's ex lover was a God. He was uncanny by definition.

  
The little God sat up elegantly on the couch, crossing his legs in a meditation pose, a bold smile illuminating his traits.  
“Hello, Dreamer, I almost died, waiting for you to wake up,” he started, crossing his lean arms, holding himself, “is that a way to welcome an old friend?” he said of his unnatural voice, that was too high pitched to be that of a man, too disharmonious to be that of woman.  
They were everything but _friends_ , Ford thought. He frowned, and crossed his arms, facing the one he once had thought was a Muse.  
“You are not wanted here.” His tone was cold, and distant. “I know very well what your plans are, and I will not let you jeopardise the security of this planet and its people.”  
Standing straight, his broad shoulders back, Stanford crossed his arms, staying in front of the bookshelves that filled almost every bit of wall in the drawing room.

  
The little God's smile vanished. This certainly was not the kind of warm welcome he had imagined. Sure, they had not parted on the best terms in the late seventies. But their conversations had always been polite in the dreamscape since then. He frowned. As Ford stood there, staring at him, a crossed look on his face, Bill took in the man's appearance. His heart started pounding a little faster, seeing how _his_ lover had changed during the years that had separated them.

He never quite reacted to Ford's demeanour or looks when they punctually met in the Dreamscape, seeing as the researcher's appearance there had not changed that much in his own mind: he still perceived himself the same way. And it was this perception of himself that reflected in the dreamality.  
But now, in the physical world, it was different. Bill's heart was racing as he slowly rose from the sofa – his movements fluid, elegant. He felt warmth in his chest and his cheeks, seeing how the years had made _his_ researcher look even more beautiful. He glanced at his strong arms, in his tight sweater – all he wanted for now was to be held tight.  
Raising his eyes to the man's closed face again, he felt as if his chest was tighter. Something was not right. Stanford LOVED him. He had to make him remember that.  
He took a few steps forward, on tiptoes, his gestures still as delicate as before, his fine neck, his thin limbs, the grace that characterised this human form of his, making him look even more fragile that his huge eyes made him look absolutely innocent. The God stopped a few steps away from Stanford, and smiled. He _knew_ the researcher loved when he smiled. He used to say he loved his melancholy smile. “Who said I came for this dusthole?” He lifted his arms and stretched himself – letting his tunic show his thin waist – before hugging himself again, “I came to spend time with _you_ ,” he added softly, his voice quiet, tilting his head on the side, a soft smile on his face.  
. Stanford could not stand when Bill changed the subject – not anymore – he was craving to tear this cute smile apart, he wanted to make him upset, his guts were clenching _hard_ as he saw everything he had once loved incarnate in the other's delicate demeanour.  
_Bill has no power in his human form. He can do NOTHING in this reality unless the Doors are opened. And as long as I will be there, no one is going to open these doors._ _And I'll do everything I can to ensure they never open again when I'm gone._ He thought, swallowing with difficulty. Anger and something he wanted to ignore.

  
The scientist shook his head. “You have nothing to do in this reality, and you know very well where all your lies ended last time.” He tensed as Bill came closer, oblivious of the man's demands that he kept his distance. The God's smile faded a little more with each word Ford uttered. “Save your energy and your wits and find something to keep you busy while you stay down here: you will have nothing from me.” Ford answered, frowning, trying to ignore how his heart rate had accelerated when the God had uncrossed his arm, before stretching one of them, resting one hand on the shelf behind Ford, while putting himself on tiptoes to look him in the eyes – he had always been shorter. Shorter, skinnier, delicate, _frail_. And powerless. Somehow, Ford felt like he could just grab him and – _NO_. The scientist did not move a finger.  
“And what are you going to do against my _will_?” Bill asked, his huge eyes seeming curious, his voice, soft, playful. He grazed the man's shoulder with the hand that was not supporting his weight on the bookshelf, much to the researcher's nervousness and discomfort. Stanford kept his composure, nevertheless, wanting to show his former Muse that he was not intimidated, that his little games of feigned innocence did not get to him. _Not anymore_.  


“I know you, Cipher,” he answered firmly, “and I also know that you have no power in this form.”

Ford added. The researcher's strong and low voice made Bill's stomach clench. He stopped touching the man, who kept talking, not moving an eyelash although the God was so close. “So unless the Door opens again, and I'll do everything to prevent it, I can very well make your life down here a living hell. You have no power over me anymore.” The researcher could not stand this closeness. Unwilling to touch the little blond, for whatever reasons, he spoke again, hoping this would make him back up: “And please get away from my personal space.”  


This made Bill frown, finally. A frown that looked more like a pout – so much for seeming so innocent. Ford was not afraid of him. He _despised_ him. But Bill never took orders, unless he had agreed to that before. So he moved swiftly, graciously, still on tip toes, and put both hands on the man's shoulders, pushing him _hard_ against the shelves.  


“I do what I want.” He said, his voice resonating, almost whining. Ford had forgotten how frailty and strength mingled perfectly in Bill, he had forgotten how he was as delicate as he could be fierce. He repressed a gasp when he felt to touch of his ex lover, and the bookshelves against his back. Bill held him tight. Ford did not flinch.  
“Get – Away – From – me, Bill.” Ford added, more firmly.

  
Bill squirmed, offended by the turn of he conversation. This was supposed to be a surprise, him and Stanford, like before. This was supposed to be pleasant, to be them together, in the physical world, sharing earthly delights, until Ford finally fell for the God again, addicted to his knowledge, addicted to his essence, curious about the infinite he could offer, addicted to his _body_. He had never thought that words could hurt him physically, before that awful day, back in 1979. And yet, there they were again, hitting hard, pushing him to dig into the researcher's shoulders with his sharp nails, the corner of his mouth going slightly down, and his eyes feeling like they burnt, although they were watery now. Something about anger and yearning.

 

The God answered, voluntarily a little too loud, not controlling the distortions in the frequencies of his voice, not even conscious that he was hurting the man's shoulders with his grasp:  
“What are you gonna do if I don't go away? Hurt me? Kill this body? You are not even able to raise a hand on someone you _hate_ , how are you going to _force me_?” He spat, looking the man straight in the eyes.  
Stanford winced. He breathed in deeply, as he started feeling dizzy, as he felt Bill's nails dig harder. He detested how Bill challenged him just to prove him wrong. He hated how Bill was right about him being _good._ He hated the implications of Bill's last sentence too. If he could not raise a hand on someone he hated, how could he hurt Bill? Did that mean he did not hate him? He wanted to just... Oh, he abhorred the fact that Bill was _right._ All he wanted right now was to make this adorable offended expression leave the god's face. Make it go away, any expression but _that._

Ford breathed in a sharp breath. He _hated_ when the God acted like that, he hated this, this little show of force, this little show of _will_ , this adorable expression of despair, that once made his stomach hurt from fondness, now made him want to push the God _hard_ and – he uncrossed his arms and grabbed the back of Bill's hair with one hand, holding tight, his other hand circling his thin and graceful neck.  
  
Bill's heart beat _hard_ and he gasped at the touches, leaning into it as if it were the softest caress he ever received.

Ford pulled on his former Muse's hair harder, bringing his small face closer to him, forcing him higher on his toes, and seized his neck a little tighter – he could end his life just like that. A little whimper from the God made him shake these thoughts – surely Bill, who would not die because his body died – would be too happy to have made Ford a murderer.  
Bill was enjoying the contact. He had waited so _long_ to _feel_ something, _anything_ , he had yearned so long, thinking this would never happen again. He opened his lovely mouth a little, his eyes lidded now that he got what he wanted – a reaction, any reaction, would have been perfect, but _touches_ were more than that.

  
“Stanford...” Bill breathed, letting one of his own hands slip tenderly at the back of the researcher's neck, pulling the man's hair with equal intensity, although less aggressively. His sugary breath fanned the researcher's lips. His body trembled, slightly pressed to Ford's body now that he had forced him closer. His hand was warm on the researcher's neck. His gaze was fierce, yet, Ford noticed the wetness.  
The scientist breathed in, still holding tight, as his thoughts had stopped racing, and he took in the sweet, infectious perfume of the God.  
And the whole world wavered.  
Stanford's hand moved from Bill's throat to his waist, the other pulling his hair to get him closer – and their lips collided. It was rough, it was aggressive. There was nothing gentle in the way Ford caught Bill's lips in his, in the way he did not let go of his golden hair, in the way his other arm held his waist tight, placating their chests together, digging his fingers in the skin of Bill's back, as if to prevent him from going away.  
There was nothing tender in the way the man shove is tongue in the God's mouth, then biting the small, delicate lips, letting out all his anger, all his hatred, all the hurt he had felt after the betrayal, decades ago. All the disdain and repressed rage he had held back for thirty years were pouring into this kiss – _why kiss him? Why did his guts need this so much?_

  
Bill moaned out loud, between Ford's intrusive kisses, clutching hard at the researcher's hair and shoulder, leaning into the painful and violent embrace the man had forced him in. He felt the stronger man's heart beat, loud and fast against his thin chest, and he opened his mouth wide, catching the man's lip when he could, because Ford definitely would not let him lead anything. Bill was _his_ God, didn't he think so? So he was _his_ , and for Ford to do what _pleased_ him.

The little Deity moved his hips instinctively – this body was a mess and he loved when it _hurt_ and he loved when _that_ hurt even more. He ended up panting hard, whining between two gasps, while holding tight to the human he had thought he'd never lose, and then had thought he'd never see again. One of his thin legs found its way around the researcher's hips, while he started smiling into that forceful kiss, giddy.

Ford broke the kiss, as if suddenly realising what he was doing. He kept the God close. He, too, was panting hard, He stared at his ex lover, eyebrows low, his eyes were half lidded too. He took in the little blond's face, letting go of his hair, caressing the back of his neck, sighing. Something about rage and what he had tried to repress for decades.

  
“This is bad,” he spoke quietly, out of breath, strong voice bass vibrating through his chest, making Bill shiver as he felt it against his sensitive body.

“But it feels so good,” the God murmured against the man's lips, before sighing softly, his mouth open, in a position that screamed 'please take all you want', as his thin waist squirmed against the scientist's lower abdomen. A small hand went gracefully up Ford's face, pushing a strand of hair that had fallen into one of the man's eyes, soft caress down to his bottom lip, while the other grazed the back of the man's neck fondly.  
  
And Stanford allowed it. He closed his eyes an instant, trying to make sense of his body and mind's reactions. He _knew_ this was not good. He _knew_ Bill was not there for him. Yet, as he opened his eyes again, catching Bill's passive demeanour, all logical thought seemed to gradually fade away. The scent and warmth of the little God surrounded him, invaded his whole body and mind, temporarily closing the doors of reason in Ford's brain.  
This submissive attitude had been really rare of Bill back in the day. He only ever acted sweet and fragile. Something Ford had believed was in his nature, before thinking it was all a game on the God's part. A game to get the researcher at his feet.  
And it was not supposed to work anymore.

  
Seeing as the researcher seemed confused, unsure, not moving, Bill leaned into the sensation of Ford's nails and finger in his hair. A shiver went down his spine, to Ford's other hand, still holding him tight, warm chests heaving fast against each other. He sighed, shaking a little more, and gave a sensual thurst of his hips, writhing and gasping silently, so, so sweetly.

 

The researcher felt disoriented. His senses seemed amplified, everything felt warmer, the air seemed charged with electricity, his ears were buzzing. For thirty years, Stanford had had no contact of the sort. And for the same thirty years, Bill had had no sensations at all. The little God was about to move again, but Ford did not let him. He tightened his grasp on Bill's hips in one arm, the back of his neck in the other, and, in a swift movement, he turned them around and threw the God harshly on the desk, half lying on top of him, pinning him down there, without even thinking of the books and objects there – most of them had to do with Bill anyway.

 

Bill gasped out loud, arching his back at the harsh pain in his back, digging his nails through Ford's sweater, before releasing his embrace. The shadow of a smile started to appear on the blond's lips, but the scientist did not let him enjoy this. He pressed his hips against Bill's, carrying his weight on one arm, his other hand held Bill's thin neck as if to mean “don't move,” as he stared at his ex-lover's face, his expression closed, impossible to read.  
The God lifted his trembling arms above his head, his tunic revealing his thin abdomen, muscles tensing as he moved his hips, feeling the man's weight and warmth above him. He tightened his leg around his lover's waist, he wanted to feel more.

  
For an instant, they just looked at each other, still except for their heaving chests, silent, except for their rough breaths, and the beating of their hearts.

Stanford delighted silently at sight of the little blond, under him. His huge eyes, looking up, before looking on the side; his cheeks, tinted pink; his fine traits, his soft caramel skin, his chest; rising and lowering; his limbs, spread, inviting, shaking slightly from the intensity of their previous exchange, from _desire_ – _he was his right now. He was a God, he was powerless, he yearned for this, and he was HIS_.  
Stanford's hand caressed the blond's neck, feeling the softness of his skin, and the little God writhed, sighing and arching his back again, hot six fingered hand leaving goosebumps in its track.  
Golden and blue eyes went up again, finding their lover's gaze, and recognised Ford's expression, that fire in his eyes, fiercer than before. Bill saw the anger, the conflict, the sadness, the regrets, the longing. All mingling in his lover's eyes, his expression, his movements, and his position of command. The God looked at Ford's broad shoulders, feeling the warmth and the weight of his hips and lower abdomen slowly intensify against his. How he had _ached_ for his touch, having experienced it, enjoyed it, and lost it. His chest felt tight, air did not seem to want to come in or out for a second, and he let out a shattered sigh, his mouth slightly open.

 

He whispered, “Stanford, plea...”

 

His words were cut before he could finish to utter them. A hot hand went roughly from his throat to the back of his head, a tingling sensation following the shivers, as the six fingered hand clutched harder to the golden hair. Arching his back once more, Bill whimpered as Stanford filled his little mouth with his breath, ad his tongue, kissing him _hard_ , as if not wanting him to talk, as if not wanting him to breathe.  
The other six fingered hand grazed his torso, slipping under the Muse's tunic. Warmth and rough skin of the palm turned into a burning sensation, as the man roughly etched Bill's soft skin, making the God shiver a little more.  
Ford's palm burning on his now damaged skin, the God contracted his abdomen, giving a thrust as best as he could, thus restrained, held tight, but wanting to _feel_.

 

Stanford repressed a smile when he felt the blond's hips move upwards suddenly. He slipped his tongue out of the blond's mouth, tasting his lover's wet lips, before roughly sliding Bill's tunic all the way up his arms. He delighted in the way his former Muse curved his back, in order to allow him. Bill's breath itched, the fabric of his clothes a soft caress, replaced by the hard and rough wood under him, a sweet burn on his sensitive body. Little moans escaped his mouth, and his eyes closed a little more, as he held his lover's gaze – _Please don't stop._ The researcher grabbed Bill by the neck and hips again, sitting him up briskly, pressing the frail God against his chest with one hand, the other digging nails in his lover's back, in a harsh and desperate embrace – _don't move_.  
He kissed his ex-Muse more softly, catching his upper and lower lips delicately, tasting him, enjoying his perfume, as if drinking his essence – infectious sweetness. The God circled Ford's shoulders, shaking so much that his embrace was weak. How Ford enjoyed the little twitches in Bill's breath, the short and sharp thrusts of his hips. The slower he kissed him, the more the God's legs clenched around the man's waist, muscles tensing.  


Bill's tiny hands went to Ford's hair, twitching, clutching, pulling, scratching, shivering along his neck, along his arms, shaking to his chest where delicate fingers spread, unstable, before gripping his sweater, as if afraid to fall. A warm and damp hand sneaked under his trousers' hem, and he let out a sharp breath in the Stanford's open mouth, his leg clutching hard round his lover's waist, shaking uncontrollably, his breath now just chaotic hitches, heart beat a deafening cacophony of mad drums.

  
Ford bit and licked Bill's bottom lip, and he placated his six fingered hand on the tiny caramel chest, almost covering the whole surface. He pushed forward, gently, still holding the back of his Muse's neck, remaining as close as he could, as he descended on top of the frail body. He felt the thin muscles of Bill's torso and abdomen under his hand, as he moved it downward, pulling away just a moment, sliding the God's trousers off his skinny legs, which the blond allowed, unable to breath for a second, spreading his arms above his head again, opening his mouth, looking at the researcher, expectant, on edge, _yearning_. When Stanford bent down again, caressing his lover's belly, Bill slowly brought his shaky little hands to pull at Ford's turtleneck.

  
Bill seemed so fragile, frail body responding only to the touches, not even trying to resist, subjugated to the researcher's imperious hand.  
  
“Do you really want this?” The scientist asked softly, his voice low, his breath short, his nose grazing the other's.  
Bill was in agony. His belly and his back ached from the heat of the other's hand, from the friction against the wooden desk. He exhaled roughly, his eyes _pleading_.  
This sight told the researcher all he needed to know. But he _wanted_ to _hear_ him say it. So he waited, breathing in the flowery perfume that was invading the room, invading his thoughts, invading his whole being. Sustaining his weight on one arm again, Ford bent down a little more, and murmured to Bill's ear, lips grazing the God's skin, a tormenting caress: “Do you really want this?” He pulled away, while a hot and strong hand on Bill's torso maintained the Muse firmly in place – _I could just..._

 

“Stanford,” he exhaled, softly. _How desirable he was. How vulnerable.  
_“Please me,” he breathed, a trembling whisper. Bill's heart pounded louder, his hands grasping more and more weakly, his legs spreading even more.

 _How he wanted to be his._  
The researcher pulled away. Six fingered hands circled caramel wrists, and Bill let go of the man's sweater, too weak to protest.  
Ford took off his sweater, revealing the tattoos that had remained hidden for three decades, Bill taking it all in, remembering each and ever detail that _he_ had carved on this strong body, marvelling at how the years had made Stanford even more attractive than he was before. His chest felt so tight that he moaned out loud.

  
Stanford smashed their chests together, gripping Bill's neck, digging his nails in, pulling his hair. He bit Bill's lips again, harder than before, causing the little God to part them more. The researcher shoved his tongue deep into this warm little mouth, thirsty, hungry. He wanted to feel him, he wanted to taste him, he wanted to _invade_ him. He grabbed Bill's body so harshly, that he broke the God's skin on several spots, on his sides and back. He could mark his skin too. He was fuelled by the blond's moans, by the instinctive movements of his frail body, the warmth and the softness of his skin.  
Holding Bill's hips, he then proceeded to kiss his jaw, moaning and groaning, finally letting go of all conceptual thought. He sucked and nipped at the fine neck, before biting _hard_ , not breaking the skin, but earning a cry of bliss from Bill who, in response, marked the researcher's back with his nails, as his hips thrust forward violently.

 

 

  
In a swift movement, Stanford took off his trousers enough to be free and as he kissed the God's mouth again, he claimed the space between Bill's legs more fiercely than he ever did before.  
He gave a sharp thrust and got all the way into the little God, while groaning and panting in Bill's open mouth.  
Bill screamed, sinking his nails into the man's back, hurting him, but Stanford did not care for that. He broke the kiss, panting, looking his former Muse in the eyes. Tears rolled down Bill's cheeks, his breath was short, his arms and legs were shaking violently – Stanford had hurt him. The researcher brought a hand to delicately graze the smaller blond's cheek, wiping a tear.  
The tingling sensation that had taken a hold of Bill spread all the way from his lower back, to his belly, to his chest, to his limbs. He felt dizzy, light headed, he closed his eyes an instant, breathing in and out, slowly, shakily. His opened his eyes and his vision turned black an instant, so he closed them again, mouth open, his arms and legs weakening their embrace.  
Stanford pulled back a little, concerned about his God's pleasure, not wanting to hurt him.

When he felt the researcher starting to withdraw, Bill opened his eyes again. His little legs clutched harder, and one of his tiny hands grabbed the researcher's hair. He panted a little while longer, and pulled Ford's hair, bringing their faces closer, opening his mouth wide, inviting him to continue – _don't stop._  
So the researcher complied. He held tight to the little God who moaned and writhed under him, against him. Every thrust made them moan louder, breath faster. Ford felt the little God's thin muscles against his belly and his chest, he delighted in the way thin arms clutched, sharp little nails damaging his skin, warm and wet little mouth biting, sucking, drinking, imploring.  
Bill drowned voluntarily under the weight of the man who held him firmly. He delighted in the warmth of his arms, that held him possessively, circling his waist and shoulders. He had died a thousand times to feel this chest against his, to feel this belly push and pull against his, to feel his Stanford against him, on him, _inside him_. All that mattered to him was there, in his arms, around him.  
As Bill's moans became more and more like cries and whimpers, his hips undulating more and more sporadically, Stanford thrust inside the God harder, keeping him in place with one hand on his hip, watching as Bill's breath became irregular, how his body was shaken by spasms, how his last moan turned into a twitchy scream, as his thin little legs suddenly could not keep their hold around the man's waist, as they shook too much, as sugary fluid spread on the caramel coloured belly under him.  
Bill looked at his lover, a tear falling again, as Stanford's body shook and tensed.  
The researcher's hold on Bill's hips was harsh and merciless. He released inside Bill, moaning also, a hand searching for Bill's cheek, wiping away the Godly tears, before one last shaky thrust made him exhale in the God's mouth, kissing him vehemently. The scientist let himself gently lied on top of the Muse, holding him dearly, caressing his golden locks gently. They stayed like that for a moment, dazed, not a word coming out.

When he felt he had enough strength, Stanford got out of Bill, and he gently carried the little God in his arms, lying him down on the sofa. Bill curled up, hugging his knees, looking up at the scientist. Once he had readjusted his trouser, Stanford sat next to him, watching the reason of his nightmares, the reason of his heart break, the reason of his failed destiny, lying there, the frail body still shaking from time to time due to a too intense experience. They stayed like that for while. The shadow of a smile found its way on the researcher's features, and Bill stretched his arms, suddenly feeling cold.

 

“Don't leave me,” he said softly, as tears ran from his eyes again. Stanford sighed, and lied down as best as he could on the tiny couch, holding the little God in his arms, caressing his soft skin, taking in his perfume – he smelt of honey and cherry blossom.  
The little God circled the man's shoulders in a soft and delicate embrace, one leg snuggling around the stronger waist. He kissed Stanford's neck, snorting quietly. He thought he'd never ever feel again. His stomach clenched hard, his chest hurt, and he held tighter.  
Stanford was lost. Was it such a bad thing? Bill looked so innocent. He grabbed a blanket that had laid there for a while, and covered his Godly lover, letting the little blond hide his face in the curve of his neck. They stayed like that, without talking, until Bill fell asleep, exhausted, lost, _home_.

 


End file.
